


Into Battle

by abbieroad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post S3, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, The Sign of Three, anyway, i dont want to put anymore tags cause im afraid of spoiling???, tsot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:35:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbieroad/pseuds/abbieroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock bit the inside of his lip so hard that it bled.<br/>John knew.<br/>No matter what Sherlock did now, no matter how much he wanted to delete it, to delete everything, John knew, and that was the one thing that Sherlock swore he would never let happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indefinitely

It was the Big Day. A day full of sweet smiles and buttery sunlight, of champagne and dancing and promises. Lovely, lovely things. Even though all of these things are light and beautiful, they weighed heavily on Sherlock’s chest. This was supposed to be a _happy_ day; this was _John’s_ day. He shouldn’t take away from that. He shouldn’t _want_ to take away from that.

The flat was so uncomfortably quiet in the time since Sherlock returned. There were no clacking keys on John’s laptop, no clinking cups on the table, no creaking footsteps on the floor above him. Just a deafening sort of silence, the kind of silence that drives someone mad. Sometimes he talked to John’s empty chair, but not because he forgot he was gone, no. John’s absence was as loud as the flat was silent. It demanded to be remembered, to be seen, to be felt. As much as he tried, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t delete the fact that John was no longer there.

Sherlock stared at the screen in front of him. Of course John asked him to be his best man, asked him to speak aloud in front of all of those loathsome people, and of course Sherlock accepted.

The speech.

He had no idea how to start a normal best man speech, not in the slightest. Though, it was a relief that John probably wasn’t expecting anything normal. This was _Sherlock_ , after all.

He decided that the best thing to do would be to just _start writing._ To just start with the undeniable truths of John Watson. It was difficult to write and even harder to read back. It was sappy and emotional and all the things Sherlock tried to convince people that he was not.

The obvious, glaring truth of it all made his stomach ache.

 

The actual wedding seemed to take an entire age to finally get underway. People were ushered to seats, small talk was spoken and smiles were forcibly exchanged. It was long and tedious and boring. He hated every second of it because he hated how much his gut was wrenching.

_I told you, Sherlock._

While his brother’s voice bounced in his head, Sherlock retreated to an empty room. To practice his speech, he told himself. That was all. He took the cards out of his pocket and started reciting the words that he already knew, the words that he didn’t think he would ever stop knowing.

_Don’t get involved._

 

John looked different. Sherlock had seen him at various moments throughout the day but there was something about the way he looked at the altar. He was glowing. It might have just been the angle of the sun through the stained windows, but either way, Sherlock didn’t want to stop looking.

His chest tightened when John’s face somehow got lighter when Mary approached him from down the aisle. Sherlock remembered John being happy like that a long time ago, back when they were two idiots dashing through the dark streets of London. Back when it was the two of them against the rest of the world. Sherlock bit his lip to keep from snarling at the thought of it.

The man that stood in front of the couple said some very nice things that Sherlock paid no attention to. He just kept talking and talking and talking. So much work and so much talking for such a simple arrangement. An arrangement that crumbles and fails in over fifty percent of couples.

_Liar._

The word still hung around Mary’s head like a halo. Under any normal circumstance, Sherlock would have told John about his deduction on the night that he came back. But of course he didn’t. Sherlock could see how Mary stitched John back together after he’d left. If John was happy, that was good enough. It had to be good enough.

The night that Sherlock returned did not go the way he had imagined it would, and Sherlock had imagined it plenty. When the metal-tipped whips came down across his back, when the food stopped coming for days, when they refused to let him sleep, there was always John. The thought of him was the thing that kept Sherlock from giving up completely. The scenarios he played out in his mind were his escape, they were the only things that kept him sane. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping to share a bed with him on the night of his return.

~~He would be lying if he said he never thought of just John and himself at the altar.~~

Sherlock looked to the floor. He would keep it together, for John, he would compose himself. He would not let his ridiculous pining ruin John’s day, the biggest and most important day of his life.

He tried to throw himself deep into his mind palace when it was time for the “I do’s,” so deep that he didn’t realize he whispered along with Mary.

_I do._

It was hardly audible, his lips barely moved. But John heard. Sherlock knew that John heard. His chin turned upward by a fraction of a centimeter, his posture stiffened ever so slightly, and there was a split-second hesitation before his responding _I do._ Sherlock could practically hear the gears turning in John’s head before spitting the words out of his mouth.

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip so hard that it bled.

John knew.

No matter what Sherlock did now, no matter how much he wanted to delete it, to delete everything, _John knew_ , and that was the one thing that Sherlock swore he would never let happen.

 

The reception came next. God, the reception. The speech. He thanked the universe and all of its stars that John acted completely normally. Perhaps he hadn’t heard after all. He didn’t pull him aside, he didn’t toss him out of the wedding, he just continued to be John Watson, the husband. _Husband_. The word fit nicely on him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and started his speech.

The only thing that he remembered was trying so hard to seem fine, even though if someone were to check his pulse they would think he was going into cardiac arrest. He said so many things about John and so many people started crying. John started crying. Sherlock didn’t understand what was happening; he was simply _stating the facts_.

Every thought ran straight out of his head when John stood to hug him. He didn’t even have the brain capacity to try and hug back.

He tried not to leave early, he truly did. But he couldn’t, he simply _couldn’t_ stand there and watch that man dance with his new wife and look so bloody happy while doing it. So he left early, which is apparently something that you’re not supposed to do.

He always knew that he would end up alone, he knew that he was too much trouble for someone to want to deal with indefinitely. He’d made friends with the idea of loneliness until he met John. The one person in all his life that fought the darkness away, the one person he wanted to spend time with. Not necessarily forever, but indefinitely. He thought he knew what being lonely felt like before, but he really didn’t. This kind of loneliness was real, it was raw and it felt like someone had misplaced all of his insides.

Sherlock walked into his flat and collapsed in John’s chair. He’d have to move it eventually, he couldn’t bear to see it right in the center of the flat, right where everyone could see it, right where _anyone_ could sit in it. He’d move it in the morning.

He hated that his vision was swimming. He hated crying. It was such a useless and pointless thing to do. But he did plenty of useless and pointless things for John, he supposed.

 

He woke up to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. John’s footsteps. How long had he been asleep? _Why_ did he allow himself to fall asleep?

Sherlock launched himself out of the chair and was standing awkwardly in the center of the room, hair matted and eyes foggy from sleep when John walked in.

His voice was quiet. “We should talk.”

It took everything in him to stop himself from just shoving John out the door. ~~Shoving John against the wall.~~ “Aren’t you supposed to be leaving for your Sex Holiday?” Sherlock’s voice was bored and nonchalant. _Honeymoon_ , he thought. He felt a pang in his gut.

“We’re not leaving until tomorrow.” John pursed his lips and couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. To be fair, Sherlock couldn’t meet his either.

He turned away and stepped toward the window. “You should go, John.”

“I heard you.” He said, louder and angrier than before. “At the altar, I _heard_ you.” He took a step closer to Sherlock, who didn’t even flinch. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Sherlock snapped, turning towards him. “You’ve pretended thus far.”

John made an exasperated sound. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. “You see, but you do not observe.” He turned away again towards the window. “This conversation has waited years to occur. It can wait.”

John shook his head and looked at the floor. “How long, exactly, are we going to pretend that nothing happened?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Fine.” John said. In that word, Sherlock could see all the things that John wanted to do. John wanted to hit him, John wanted to break something, John wanted to storm out and slam the door. But he didn’t do any of those things. He simply started walking away. Before exiting, he turned back around and spoke to the back of Sherlock’s head. “For the record, you didn’t see me either.”

Each thud against the stairs made Sherlock wince, each footstep like a stab in the chest.


	2. The Losing Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a deafening silence for a long time. Just John, breathing heavily, and Sherlock, trying to keep himself from falling apart completely.  
> John shook his head. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to warn you, this really, REALLY hurt to write. So just... yeah. Be careful out there, kids. I'm sorry in advance.

Sherlock almost told him again. Sure, it definitely had something to do with the fact that his blood was swimming in morphine and cocaine, but still. He almost told him again. After everything that’d happened since the wedding, there hadn’t been a time to talk about it all.

But there was time on the tarmac.

He wanted to die on that plane. He wanted the very last interaction to be with the one person that ever made him feel human, the one person that ever made him feel like he _deserved_ to feel human. He wanted to drift into sleep while reading the stories of their adventures, the story of how they met, and to never wake up.

 _Sherlock is actually a girl’s name_.

An abandoned love confession, sure.

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

“I think it could work.”

_‘Sherlock Watson.’ I think it could work._

Perhaps it wasn’t completely abandoned after all.

 

Sherlock paced back and forth and back and forth, he lost track of how long he’d been doing it. Minutes, maybe hours. The sun was starting to set.

They brought him back to solve this, to solve the mystery of Moriarty. There was no mystery. The fact was that Moriarty had died on that rooftop. Someone was posing as Moriarty; someone knew that Moriarty returning would be the only thing preventing Sherlock’s exile.  

Someone wanted him to stay.

Why—

Wait.

Footsteps.

He’d memorized the sound of John’s footsteps coming up to their— _his—_ flat within days of their meeting. He didn’t think he would be able to erase it even if he wanted to. These steps were John’s but they were softer. They were tense, they were… afraid. Anxious.

Sherlock heard him walk in and pretended not to notice. Of course he noticed.

“Er, Sherlock.”

He feigned a dazed look and turned his head toward the man standing uncomfortably in the doorway. “John.”

“I think we should… talk.”

John never _talked_. Never instigated it, anyway. He was built from repressed feelings and unspoken sentences, John didn’t _talk_. But John wanted to talk.

Sherlock sat in his chair and motioned for John to sit in his. John stayed standing.

“The tarmac. You were… You were about to say something, then didn’t.” He was looking at his feet. “What were you going to say?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and tried to stay calm, tried to stay uncaring, but it was impossible. He was tired, he was done pretending. He’d been pretending and pretending for so long and he was _tired._

“If you’re asking, then my answer doesn’t matter.”

“I want you to say it.”

Maybe it was because he was tired. Maybe it was because he was so _desperate_ to be free of the feeling in his gut that was always sinking down, down, down. Maybe it was because there was the smallest chance that John would stay, stay with _him_.

Sherlock stood and tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

“I wanted to tell you how I feel for you.” His voice was low and quiet, afraid that raising his voice would shatter the fragile thing in the air. “I wanted to tell you that everything, everything I’ve done has been done for you. That even though I ruined everything by jumping that day, I would do it again and again because you’re still here. Even though I nearly died in those two years I was gone, the idea of you being alive, the idea of being able to _come back_ to you was the thing that kept _me_ alive.” He swallowed and didn’t care that his vision was swimming and his voice was catching.

“I’ve said it before and I will say it again until I run out of breath, but _you saved me._ In so many ways, John. You… You’re the most spectacular and brilliant person that I’ve ever met, and you… decided to be my friend.” Sherlock’s lip was trembling and his hands were shaking and he was losing control, it was slipping, he was slipping, everything was falling. “You saw things in me that I didn’t know I had. You believed in me. You are… the most important person in all this world to me.”

There was a deafening silence for a long time. Just John, breathing heavily, and Sherlock, trying to keep himself from falling apart completely.

John shook his head. “No.”

Sherlock was physically pushed back by John’s reaction. “No?” It sounded like the smallest word in the world, coming from Sherlock’s mouth.

“No,” John said again. “Don’t… Don’t make this something it’s not. I don’t—I’m not… gay. You’ve got to know that by now.”

Sherlock looked at him like he didn’t know who he was. “I don’t understand—”

“We’re just mates, Sherlock.” He said, still not making eye contact. “You’re being dramatic; we’ve never been _more_ than mates.”

Sherlock was stunned. Every word he could have thought to say had evaporated on his tongue.

“I think we should stop.”

“Stop?” He sounded broken, he hated it. He hated this. He hated himself for saying _anything_.

“Talking. I don’t… _want_ this.” John took a step back toward the door. “I… Sorry.”

“You can’t _leave_ like this.” Sherlock insisted, his voice getting louder. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t how it was supposed to end, this wasn’t supposed to end at all.

“Like hell I can!” He said incredulously. John was getting angry. “I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t do this.” John spoke through his teeth. “The sad eyes you give me from across the room and the bloody _confessions_ at my _wedding reception_ and all the… everything. I can’t _do_ it anymore.” John started walking towards the door.

“No, John— _stop._ ” John didn’t stop. “You—But I _love_ you—”

John halted at the doorway and finally, _finally_ looked Sherlock in the eye. He looked angry, but more than that, he looked sad. Sherlock didn’t have the energy to deduce why.

“I’m done, Sherlock. We’re done.”

The door closed and Sherlock broke at the sound.

He didn’t remember thinking about falling to his knees, about laying on his side on the cold and dirty floor, about clutching his stomach because if he didn’t then everything inside of him would fall a million feet down. But there he was. He was on the floor because making it to the couch or the chair or his bed felt like too much, he was feeling _too much_. He wanted to stop feeling, he wanted to leave, just for a moment.

He knew how to do that.

As soon as he had the ability to pick himself up from the floor he would make his way to his room where, under a loose board in the floor, he would pick up a small box with everything he needed in order to stop feeling.

So he put enough poison in his veins to stop feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY HONESTLY. I PROMISE IT'LL BE OK, OK. IT WILL BE OK. Anyway, thank you all so much for such lovely comments on the last chapter! I'm glad you like it and I hope you like all the stuff that's coming.
> 
> This part of the fic (the whole John being an ass) was inspired by a post I say on tumblr, and I'll link it in a future chapter! (Because the post will spoil exactly /why/ John's being an ass. And I'm savin' that for later.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s ridiculous. Sherlock’s not an idiot.”
> 
> “He is, very often, actually.” Mycroft said. “He told you that Mary only incapacitated him, that her shot was surgery. He told you to forgive her.” He looked at John with something that almost looked sad. “You would have to be the idiot to think those things were true.”

John didn’t let himself feel anything, didn’t let himself understand what he’d done, what he’d _said_ , until he was out into the cold night. He’d become someone else. He _had_ to shut everything off, he needed not to feel the weight of what he was doing. But when the weight of it all finally settled it crashed into him, making him double over and put a hand on his chest. His chest was caving in, it was aching, it was cracked in half.

He felt like he left a part of him in that flat, a crucial part of him.

After a few minutes of leaning against a mailbox a couple blocks away from Baker Street, a shiny black car rolled up in front of him. John exhaled and stepped in.

He didn’t look at Mycroft. He couldn’t.

“Did my brother react as expected?”

John nodded once.

Mycroft inhaled sharply and looked out the tinted windows. “Good.”

 

_Three hours earlier._

 

“I don’t understand why you never phone me.” John said. “I have a _phone_ , you know.”

“Some things are better dealt with in person.” Mycroft said, peering at John from over his desk.

John had never been in here before and he tried to imagine the amount of security guarding it. The office wasn’t warm. It was cold and dark and intimidating; all of the things that Mycroft tried to be. “All right, then.” John jerked his chin upward. “What’s so important?”

Mycroft motioned for him to sit and he did, hesitantly.

“It’s regarding my brother.”

“I figured.”

Mycroft paused, struggling to find the appropriate words. “By now, I’m sure you’re aware… that he feels things, in that way. For you, particularly.”

A muscle in John’s jaw tightened and twitched. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“Do not get defensive, Doctor Watson, it will only make this harder.” Mycroft sighed. “I have reason to believe that my brother is in danger. More so than usual.”

“What does that have to do with—his feelings?”

“He would do anything to protect you, not only physically but emotionally as well. Your happiness is his top priority, that much has been proven by his ability to attend your wedding.” John’s face heated in spite of himself. “I have reason to believe that whoever is orchestrating the Moriarty return is wanting to meet with Sherlock, and he can not have his mind be clouded with thoughts of you.”

John scoffed incredulously. “Sherlock and I—we both have faced dangerous people. I don’t see how this time’s different.”

Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. John, apparently, was being slow. “I have a theory of who is behind this, or at least involved.” He eyed John carefully. “Mary.”

“ _Mary_ —?”

“I could be wrong,” Mycroft explained. “But I rarely am. And if it _is_ Mary, then Sherlock’s first thought will not be to apprehend her, it will be to do whatever will result in you being happiest.”

“That’s ridiculous. Sherlock’s not an idiot.”

“He is, very often, actually.” Mycroft said. “He told you that Mary only incapacitated him, that her shot was surgery. He told you to forgive her.” He looked at John with something that almost looked sad. “ _You_ would have to be the idiot to think those things were true.”

John didn’t respond; he was too busy untangling the knot in his stomach.

“If you were somehow taken from the equation, Sherlock would be able to effectively take down whoever was responsible. At the very least, he will be able to keep himself alive until my men can step in, considering his life will be his first priority instead of yours.”

John looked like he was struggling with something. “What will you have me do?”

“Try to make Sherlock hate you.” He said. “Though I believe that’s impossible, even making him think that _you_ hate _him_ would be effective enough.”

“What good would that do?” John’s voice was nearly a shout.

“He’s very good at compartmentalizing things in his head. He can shove away a thought easily, delete them. Though he would never delete anything about you, he would most likely try to hide them away, allowing to have an unbiased reaction to whatever he’s approached by.”

John clenched his fist. “I’d have to be cruel to him.” He said. “I won’t do that. I can’t.”

“If you care about my brother at all, platonically or otherwise, you will do this.”

John swallowed. “I want to be there.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Where they’re meeting. Sherlock doesn’t need to know I’m there, but I _will_ be there.” John was seething. “I won’t sit around _waiting_ while Sherlock’s in danger.”

Mycroft thought for a moment and nodded. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

John stood.

“A car will meet you tonight when you leave Baker Street.”

John started walking to the door.

“And John.”

John stopped.

“If it does turn out to be Mary, you cannot be biased either. You have to do what is necessary.”

John looked back at him. “That won’t be an issue.”

 

Sherlock did, eventually, get out of bed. It might have been hours or days later, he wasn’t sure. He wanted his violin. He needed to play. The flat was too quiet, it was too empty, and he needed to fill it with something that he could control. Something that wouldn’t leave.

But Sherlock did not get to his violin.

There was a piece of paper on the couch, a piece of paper that was not there before. Sherlock nearly leapt to grab it, his first thought being _John, John, John._

But it was not an apology, it wasn’t a letter at all.

Scrawled in long, thin handwriting was an address and a date and a time. Nothing else. Sherlock’s heart was pounding, filling his blood with adrenaline.

A distraction.

He didn’t recognize the address, but it hardly mattered. He would go, he would figure this out, and everything would be fine— _he_ would be fine.

And if he wasn’t fine in the end, he wasn’t sure that he cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okok so now that you know John's motives of being terrible, I can show you the post that inspired that idea! [ here it is ](http://shitelock.tumblr.com/post/147976182065/the-7-percent-solution-dread-pirate-redbeard) It really hurts.
> 
> Thank you all for the nice comments and stuff asdjfj I appreciate it!!


End file.
